


Ma Mère

by tarakai714



Series: Subdued [5]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Caring Hannibal Lecter, Childhood Trauma, Established Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-19
Updated: 2020-10-20
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:27:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27104206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tarakai714/pseuds/tarakai714
Summary: Hannibal is curious and Will thinks he can be forthcoming this time.AN: Flashbacks are in Italics.CW: mentions of suicide
Relationships: Will Graham & Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Series: Subdued [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1825081
Comments: 2
Kudos: 50





	1. ONE

“When did your mother leave, Will?”

Hannibal drops this bomb moments after asking Will to hand him the small jar of honey. Will blinks at him as he lowers the teaspoon of honey into his cup and starts to stir. For a few moments, Will just glares at him with his mouth slightly agape, until he makes an exasperated sound and places his own cup on the table: “why are you like this, Hannibal?”

Hannibal places the teaspoon in the saucer, cradling his cup in his hand: “you said you were tired of dancing around metaphors. I am simply being compliant.” Will looks away, his gaze settling on a small herd of white clouds suspended over the horizon: “wow that’s…” He trails off and sighs, righting his posture and turning slightly in his chair to look at Hannibal again: “you don’t do compliant, Hannibal.”

Hannibal hums in response and feigns having dropped the matter as he sips his honey sweet tea.

Will wonders if he is truly angry or is manifesting his resentment for Hannibal’s past actions. As it turns out, Will’s forgiveness _is_ quite sharp. While he admittedly cannot bear the thought of living—being—without Hannibal, he is yet to find himself at peace with the life they have seemingly left behind. It makes sense that he wishes to know more about Will’s past. Molly had wanted to know too, but with her, it was easier to deflect. Will had given her snippets of a handful of memories, enough to indulge her well-intended curiosity, but had made it clear that he would not share more. With Hannibal, however, it is a different story. Hannibal pokes, prods, and demands without necessarily seeming demanding. And defiance only riles him up. Will shakes his head, because it should not matter anymore; because they are long past beyond pleasantries and the obligations of ‘polite society.’

“I was 4.” Will relents.

He quietly clears his throat. It is not a nervous tic. He does it to re-center his voice and make sure it does not falter when he speaks again: “my father filed a missing person’s report.” He huffs a bitter laugh: “the search went cold as quickly as it had started.” Here, he sighs, and Hannibal shifts to be able to watch Will carefully as he brings his hand up, fingers grazing his cupid bow. Will knows he is being watched, but he cannot fault Hannibal for his peaked interest. He himself not only devours every small tidbit of insight into Hannibal’s past or person, but he also eagerly seeks it out. How can he blame Hannibal for feeling the same kind of hunger for him?

“11 months later, my father got the call. He went in to identify the body.”

Will swallows and spares Hannibal a fluttering glance, looking away almost immediately as if burned by Hannibal’s tender gaze. His lips are dry, and they part with an audible click: “It was ruled an accidental overdose.”

Hannibal is quiet for a moment, and then he reaches for the teapot that rests over the warmer flame. He tops off Will’s tea, and settles back in his chair, once again cradling his own cup: “and was it… an accidental overdose?”

Will’s smile is lopsided and sad and it barely takes him a second to quietly say “no.”

Will does take a sip of his tea, appreciating the way it balms his frayed nerves. He runs a hand over his face, briefly looking at Hannibal’s fingers dancing over the rim of his teacup: “I uh… saw her file.” Hannibal does not say anything, so Will huffs a laugh and goes on to tell him about Dave, his first partner when he started working homicide; Dave who was the perfect companion for his long silences during stakeouts; Dave who never gave Will shit for the particular way he avoided everybody else at the precinct.

“He misplaced a vital piece of evidence in a murder investigation. I happened to retrieve it for him.” He flashes a faint smile: “saved him a lot of grief. ‘Graham, I owe you one!’ That’s what he said to me when the situation was sorted out. I never thought I’d cash in that favor.”

Hannibal cannot help but smile at the little twitch of Will’s lips, appreciating the subtle way his eyes light up at the thought of an old friend. But with Will, remembrance often has a sobering affect with the potential to ruin the rare moments of contentment. Will rises from his seat to busy his hands with the breakfast paraphernalia scattered over the glass table. Hannibal watches for a moment, the way Will focuses on gathering the items one by one and placing them on the oak tray. There is a fine tremor to his moves that may well be a result of the early October breeze. So Hannibal gets up to assist him, hoping to continue the conversation inside. He stills Will’s hands when they reach to pick up the tray, deeming it too heavy for his ailing shoulder. Overexertion from his encounter with the intruder has brought back waves of pain, undoing months of improvement. Will does not argue. He picks up the half-full bread basket and holds the kitchen door open for Hannibal.

They clean up the kitchen together. Will makes fresh coffee for them, wringing his hands as he waits for the drip to stop. Hannibal watches him with a mix of concern and interest, eventually deciding to encourage him to continue the conversation.

“So,” Hannibal exhales, “how did your colleague repay you?”

The machine purrs as it comes to a full stop, and Will’s patience from earlier has waned because he snatches the small cup off the tray without waiting for the drip to stop. “My father got drunk one night.” Will sips his coffee and rests his hips against the counter. “He fell off the wagon, to be more precise” he corrects, flashing a bitter smile at Hannibal. He holds Hannibal’s gaze for a moment, considering. “He told me that when they found her all those years ago, he decided not to share her actual cause of death with me.”

“What did he tell you?”

Will swallows: “car accident.” He takes a deep breath and leaves his cup on the counter so he can hop on. Hannibal genuinely does not care this time. He is taken by how openly vulnerable Will is being, and there is not a moment of this display he is willing to miss.

“It was during my sabbatical, after I got stabbed. I was in town for a visit, staying at my father’s, and it happened a couple of nights after I arrived.”

_With one hand, Will takes his father’s boots off, as he throws his head back against the headrest of the armchair. He reeks of cheap whiskey, pungent alcohol infused with the overwhelming scents of cinnamon and caramelized sugar. Will grabs the throw from the sofa and drapes it over his father’s legs. He is about to leave to get him a glass of water and some Aspirin, when his wrist is caught in his father’s vice grip. His hands are oh-so-similar to Will’s, save for the protruding veins that crawl under his skin like blue vine._

Will looks at his hand for a long moment. Hannibal hesitates to step forward, giving Will time to gather his thoughts. He does, eventually, blinking rapidly and taking a deep breath. His chin trembles as he straightens his back, and Hannibal’s thumb twitches with the desire to sooth it away.

“He didn’t say much.”

_He doesn’t let Will go as he keeps stuttering apologies, telling him that he needs to explain something. Will awkwardly reaches his fingers through the sling so he can place them over his father’s. It is a minute movement but it jostles his shoulder enough to cause pain: “you don’t need to explain anything, Dad. It’s alright. Go to sleep.”_

“I think he needed to get it off his chest. He wouldn’t have done it, had he been sober, but it took away any semblance of normalcy I associated with my childhood.” Will sighs and shakes his head.

It is true. Before learning his mother’s official cause of death and the circumstances surrounding her disappearance, Will had something—or someone—to blame for how rough his early life was. He never complained, not vocally. But it eased his mind to have a reason for his father’s misery and his own vast loneliness. And when that reason was taken away, he became angry and restless.

_He is sleeping now, like an exhausted child. It is ironic to see him this way: mouth slightly agape, breaths raspy and wet but otherwise deep and measured. His wiry mustache has two symmetrical patches of dark gray, perennially stained by tobacco just above his Cupid’s bow. Will stumbles away from him, clutching at his shoulder, as he makes his way toward the guest bedroom. He takes an extra dose of his post-operative pain medication and does not hesitate to toss the bottle into his duffel bag, along with the few pieces of clothing he had unpacked when he arrived._

Will’s hands fall to his sides as he grabs the edge of the counter. He ducks to look at his feet as he crosses his ankles. He drinks the last of his coffee, and gently slides his cup toward the sink. Hannibal hands him a tall glass of water and wordlessly retreats to one of the chairs at the breakfast table.

“Did you ever tell your father how you felt?”

Will looks up at him: “uh, no… I left that night. Didn’t speak to him for a few years.” He laughs nervously when he says: “I’m a very vindictive man.”

Hannibal’s smile is warm and soothing: “yes, I remember Florence… vividly.”

Will’s shoulders tense slightly. He remembers Chiyoh and being shot in that same spot he has to reach for now. Hannibal regrets mentioning Florence when he sees Will grimace and reach for his shoulder to shoo away the phantom pain.

Will sighs: “she had been hoarding medication for months. They didn’t look hard enough.”

Hannibal hums: “you don’t seem angry about the mishap.”

“I was. For a while, I had this nagging sense of rage that was driving me crazy.” He blinks rapidly, waving his hand in front of him: “and I couldn’t figure out why. What was it that I cared about so much that kept riling me up whenever I thought about her disappearance and death.”

Hannibal rises from his seat at the breakfast table, walking up to where Will sits on the counter. He does not try to touch his face the way he yearns to, not yet anyway. He wants Will focused just the way he is: willingly vulnerable and forthcoming with details, at least in comparison to how reserved he normally is about his early life. He takes the pitcher of cold water from the fridge to top off Will’s glass.

“Is that when you decided to run your own investigation?

Will looks at the thin slices of lemon dance within the confined space of the infuser and his forehead creases.

“Yeah.”

_“You sure you don’t want any help? I can go get us some food, some decent coffee, and come back to help you sort through the evidence.” Dave swings his car keys in his hands, gesturing to the squad car parked just a few feet away from the front entrance of the motel. Will smiles at Dave. He wants to say yes—yes to the food, the coffee, and to companionship—but he is afraid of what he may find. And beyond that, he is terrified of how he may react to what he finds._

_“I’ll be alright, Dave. Thank you for this.”_

_Dave pats him on the shoulder before he leaves._

_On the creaky motel bed he reads through the reports and examines every single piece of evidence._

He does not tell Hannibal that he cannot remember much from the pictures. He knows that kind of selective omission is a tell-tale sign of blockage brought on by trauma. Will is quiet then. He drains half of the water Hannibal offered him earlier in a long slow sip, and when he brings the glass down, he gently places it on the counter and slides it a few inches away from himself.

“And then, it just hit me… that I was thinking of it as just that… ‘disappearance and death.’ But there is much more agency in disappearing the way she did. She was a ghost for almost a year…” Will narrows his eyes, making a vague gesture with his hand “and then, allowing yourself to be found as a corpse… Her being with my father, her disappearing as if she was never there to begin with, and her death… they were all her choices… bad ones, of course, but still choices,” he scoffs.

“You were not,” Hannibal finishes the thought for him. His tone is even and gentle.

“I was not,” Will repeats as he shakes his head.

Hannibal does reach out this time, stepping into the space between Will’s parted knees and raising his hands to hold Will’s face: “that’s not what I meant, Will.”

Will’s shoulders and arms are stiff with nervous energy, he does not push Hannibal away, but does not reach out to embrace him either.

“You were not a bad choice.”

Will scoffs: “Yeah, well, then the consequence of a bad choice.” He pulls away from Hannibal’s loose grasp.

“Will.”

Will picks up the glass of water and drains it, catching the single rogue drop that runs down his chin with his thumb.

“It was a long time ago, Hannibal.”

Will gently pushes him away so he can hop off the counter. Hannibal does not try to stop him. He stands where he was, hands in the pockets of his slacks now, observing as Will flashes him an uneasy smile and excuses himself. Hannibal picks up the glass and puts it in the dishwasher. Will spends the evening in his study, and when he does come out for dinner, he is a bit more relaxed. They go for a run together the next morning, both seeming to have dropped the matter.


	2. TWO

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A painful memento of Will's past

They both knew that something had been stirred that morning, and they both had expected the fallout, albeit neither was willing to discuss it with the other. But Will did not expect to find himself being pulled into a vortex of intrusive thoughts and unprocessed trauma. He had thought he could indulge Hannibal’s curiosity about his past without feeling affected himself. He thought he was detached enough not to relive it all: the desperation of a distressed child and the frustration of a man whose whole life had been a lie. But even as he was telling it that morning, Will realized that he was unable to feign indifference. He had once told Hannibal that he cannot quite connect to the concept of family, and that is still true, but it does not mean that he cannot remember the dread of losing the faded semblance of it he had as a young boy. He never asked his father why his mother left, but it never meant that he did not wonder.

Will is awake now lying on his back and unable to move. He shuts his eyes momentarily, trying to focus on wriggling his fingers, because if he can just regain control of one tiny appendage, then he can break free. Yet the more aware he becomes of his stuckness, the harder it is for Will to rein in his panic. He gasps for air but it feels like his lungs constrict each time he tries to draw a breath. Hannibal stirs at first, but fully wakes when he registers the way Will’s quiet gasps turn into incessant wheezing. It is a simple maneuver to gently gather Will’s twitching fingers in one hand and grab his shoulder to turn him on his side with the other.

“Breathe, Will.” He says without letting go of Will’s hand: “you are awake.”

Will’s body trembles but he is relieved to be awake and in control of his body. He laces his fingers with Hannibal’s, pulling his knees toward his belly and pressing his eyes shut. He swallows roughly and stays like that.

Hannibal covers him with the duvet, his thumb still running over Will’s knuckles in a soothing gesture: “Better?”

Will’s lips part but all that comes out eventually is an exhausted sigh. He nods instead, bunching the comforter in his free hand and pulling it up under his chin.

“I will be back.” Hannibal gives Will’s hand a gentle squeeze and gets up. He pulls on a sweater and pads downstairs on bare feet. He keeps a limited assortment of medication in the proofing drawer, for ‘special occasions, and for emergencies’ he told Will upon being questioned about it. He wonders if he should take the vial of benzodiazepine upstairs and see if Will is amenable to being medicated. But he dismisses the thought quickly.

When he gets back upstairs, Will is not in bed. Hannibal leaves the glass on the nightstand and returns to the hall. He thinks Will may have gone downstairs while he was in the kitchen. Will’s often socked feet make his movements hard to detect in the two-story townhouse. Hannibal is about to go downstairs when he hesitates and turns to look in the direction of Will’s study. It is too dark to see if the door is open, but when Hannibal approaches, he does find it ajar. He pushes the door open with the back of his hand, peeking inside to find Will standing by his desk, holding a well-worn paperback in both hands. Will gives him a sheepish look and tries to smile, his grip on the book almost white-knuckled now: “I came to find a boring book.”

Hannibal smiles at him but they both know that he does not entirely believe him: “to put you to sleep, I assume?”

“Yeah,” Will exhales.

“Come, Will. Let’s get you back into bed then.”

Will allows himself to be pulled toward the bedroom again. To Hannibal’s relief, he drains the glass without asking if it is ‘spiked.’ Either he does not suspect him, or he just does not care. For a moment Will just sits there, book clutched in one hand, looking dazed.

“Will.” Hannibal touches his shoulder. “Why don’t you lie down?”

He helps Will settle down, allowing him to turn away and curl on his side. Will only has to pretend to read the book for a few minutes before he is asleep. Hannibal reaches over him and shuts the book for him but does not remove it from his sleep-loosened grasp.

It is nearly 5 in the morning when Will wakes up in a state of panic. He has not moved much since he fell asleep, but it takes him a minute of frantically clawing through the duvet to find his book. It is only then that he registers Hannibal’s voice and allows himself to be pulled into his embrace. Hannibal’s hand slowly runs up and down his back, and for a few minutes all Will can hear is the sound of his own stuttering breaths. When Will finally stirs, Hannibal allows him to pull away, watching as he holds the book in the space between their chests. Hannibal’s fingers card through the mussed curls on the crown of Will’s head, gently detangling them.

Will thumbs the edge of the book and shakes it once, letting the leaves rustle. A polaroid photo falls out but Hannibal cannot see it well in the dusky shadows that enfold them. Will tosses the book behind himself and picks up the photo. There is a hitch in his exhale and he shifts with the force of a silent sob. Hannibal gathers Will in his arms. The benzodiazepine should still be circulating in his system and Hannibal thinks that he might fall asleep again within minutes. The corner of the crisp photograph nicks him in the chest through the loose weave of his sweater, but when he tries to pry it out of Will’s hand, he is denied.

It takes some time for Will to calm down and when he speaks his voice is quiet and wet.

“I don’t know what to do with this, Hannibal.”

He was not thinking straight when he took it from the evidence box and the entire thing was so insignificant that nobody came looking for it. Yet Will felt like someone should keep that polaroid photograph of his 2-year-old self. He had forgotten about it until Hannibal gave him the envelope. The contents of it were Hannibal’s surprise for Will, something he had arranged in the immediate aftermath of the fall. It contained the few items Chiyoh had managed to salvage from Will’s workspace at his house, while Molly was dealing with the fallout of their disappearance: Will’s Swiss army knife, a notebook, and a few photographs, mostly of Will’s dogs, in addition to a couple of older passport photographs of himself. “May I keep these?” Hannibal had inquired upon seeing them, and Will had laughed as he gladly handed them over.

Hannibal had never seen this one.

He gathers Will even closer, guiding him to rest his head over his shoulder and with his other hand, Hannibal turns on the night light. This time when he reaches for the polaroid, Will only hesitates for a moment before letting him take it. It is an old photograph but it has been well-maintained; no creases, folding marks, or coffee stains in sight. The slightly faded hues are unnaturally warm, but Hannibal has no doubt that the little grinning toddler is in fact Will Graham. He is wearing a checkered shirt underneath his denim overalls. Tufts of dark curls frame his face. One chubby hand splayed over his eyes to ineffectively protect them from the sun. His other hand, however, is softly grasped by the long fingers of a woman.

Hannibal places the photograph on the nightstand and turns to hold Will with both arms.

“I will be honored to keep it for you.” Hannibal whispers into Will’s hair. “Thank you for giving it to me, Will.”

Relief washes over Will and it has such force that he can do nothing but sink his teeth into his own knuckles and sob quietly. When Hannibal pries his hand away from his face, Will’s teeth are bloodied. Hannibal kisses him then, eager to taste salt, copper, and sorrow, hoping to perhaps transform them into something pleasant and reassuring. When they part, he looks down at Will’s bloodied knuckles, tutting at the damage Will’s teeth have done.

“let me get something to clean this up.”

Hannibal is gone just for a few minutes, and when he comes back, he is carrying a pitcher of water and a basic first aid kit. Will hisses at the sobering sting of the disinfectant wipe against his broken skin. He watches Hannibal wrap his hand in gauze, keeping the bandage breathable and light. The cool water washes down the taste of blood and Will hands the empty glass back to Hannibal, before finally lying back down. Hannibal joins him after adjusting the curtains to block out the little sliver of early morning light that threatens to spill into the bedroom.

He holds Will close, running his fingers through his sweat damp hair, until he drifts off. He looks flushed, quite similar to the way he looks after a particularly rigorous morning run. With one arm possessively curled around Will’s sleeping form, Hannibal reaches over to pick up the polaroid. He already knows which detail he is going to leave out, the first time he draws Will as a child. He flips the picture, holding it between his index and middle fingers: ‘Billy, 1977,’ is scribbled on the back in faded blue ink.

Hannibal slides the photo into his bedside drawer, turning off the night light. He pulls the duvet up to cover them both and nods off with his nose buried in Will’s hair.

**Author's Note:**

> If you are curious about the envelope, it was mentioned in "Reprieve," which is part 3 of this series.


End file.
